In the Tangle of the Garden
by sky tulips
Summary: Arthur keeps a secret garden. Francis finds out. One-shot. France/England.


**A/N:** Written for the Christmas Exchange at the France/England livjournal community (what_the_fruk) My prompt was - _England keeps a garden. France finds out. Hilarity and epic_ _snarkiness ensue._

* * *

_in the tangle of the garden._

**part i . the finding**

It is unusual for Arthur's house to be so empty and so quiet at such hours of the morning. Usually, the man would be already up, fully awake and be in the process of turning into a tea-drinking machine. He would normally be sitting at the kitchen table, with his legs stretched out and his ankles crossed lazily, he would have burnt toast crumbs scattered at the corner of his mouth and would often be flicking through a newspaper with a disgruntled frown or a smug grin, depending upon the day, and, of course, upon which newspaper he happened to be reading. The house would generally be loud, with the early-morning radio blasting some crude British indie-pop that, quite frankly, hurt Francis' ears, and with that god-damn old-fashioned copper kettle whistling like a screaming siren on the hob.

However, the kitchen was quite empty. The white-and-yellow checkerboard curtains were not even drawn yet and the kettle was tucked away, seemingly unused. Shaking his head, Francis presumed that Arthur was probably still sleeping and promptly ventured to try and figure out how to use the kettle.

"_Bonjour_! Arthur!" Francis called upstairs as he strained the teabag and dumped a good few spoonfuls of sugar into the teacup. "I have made you some tea and you shall only receive it once you stop being the lazy, bed-dwelling beast you are and come downstairs."

Rolling his eyes as he received no reply, Francis braved going upstairs, taking two-at-a-time and trying to balance the teacup on one of Arthur's fancy, patterned saucers.

"Arthur," Francis exclaimed, knocking on Arthur's bedroom door with his free hand, "You had better not be dead in there. Although I love to be the bearer of good news, I really don't have the energy to report a death today."

Pouting slightly at the lack of response, Francis turned his attention towards the doorknob. "Okay, Arthur, I guess I'm coming in. I will inform you now, _mon cher_, that if you are in a state of undress when I enter, I shall not apologise but merely think it a lucky coincidence."

Chuckling slightly at his delightful French wit, Francis opened the door and was at once utterly perplexed to find the room - and bed - completely empty. Arthur had either stayed out all night, which was, Francis had to admit, not at all unlike him, or, he had gotten up incredibly early and had already gone about his business.

"And I made him a cup of tea, too." Francis sighed, looking down at the milk-starved substance. As he walked back downstairs and into the kitchen, he blew softly into the cup, cooling the drink and then took a sip. He subsequently spat it out, thinking that _yes_, he would rather waste it than drink it.

Putting the cup down on the kitchen table, Francis sat down and contemplated whether he would wait until Arthur got back. It was around this moment that two separate things came to his attention. The first, was a door - a back-door, to be precise. Francis had never before realised that Arthur had a back-door to his house which was strange since it was adorned with those same ridiculous curtains as his windows and decorated with golden spirals that had been carved intricately into the pale wood. The second thing that came to Francis' attention was what seemed to be Arthur's voice, shouting profanities from somewhere in the distance.

"Oh _fuck_! Fucking _shitification_."

It didn't take a genius to put the two things together.

There was a bell upon the doorframe that sang when the door opened. Alternatively, Francis mused, it could and probably _should _say 'Prepare for the unexpected' - after all, a fair warning would have done him a world of good.

At his feet, was a path that wound down a few metres to an iron gate, its delicate floral pattern covered in shiny black paint that faded into smooth copper hues at the edges, making it seem like somebody had scattered the looping metal petals with gold dust. Up and the path were bushes that were crowned with clusters of tiny coloured blossoms, they all grew to different heights and they were layered in such a way that they looked like they'd been stacked up against the skyline like tender wisps of pastel clouds.

Pushing the gate open with one hand, Francis stepped into the garden and folded his arms. The early-spring sun spilled onto the grass, drenching it golden and the scent of daffodils was sweet and fresh upon the sharp English breeze. The flower-beds were all pushed together in what was probably Arthur's idea of organised chaos - violets the colour of midnight suddenly transforming into snowdrops the colour of milk and frost, swaying like early winter bells. There were tiny bluebells amidst the bands of saffron-coloured peony and there were lilies growing tall amongst bundles of pansies. The flower-beds fit together like muddled jigsaw pieces, forced together by Arthur's volition - strange combinations that happened to work, as a whole, quite perfectly.

To the right-hand side of the garden was a large tree from which a garden swing hung, fragrant honeysuckle climbing up its ropes. To the corner, and under the tree's shade, was a quaint garden shed laced with twirling, twisting climbing plants that clawed up the wood. Over to the left was a pond, a mirror of the blue, blue sky, with the white-gold of the sun trickling through the clouds. It was almost like a tiny, sky-littered ocean, with a delicate bridge crossing over the entirety of it. The bridge led to what seemed to be a grotto in the left corner of the garden. There were lanterns in the deep of it, glittering like fireflies and bursting with light like dying, spluttering stars. Finally, among the hedgerows and bird-tables and fairy ornaments, were two white-as-bone statues, a lion and a unicorn standing face-to-face, being rained upon by a nearby fountain.

In the centre of the garden, was Arthur, his finger raised and in his mouth, blood dribbling down it like ice cream does its cone on hot days, dirt smudged across his forehead and littered in his hair. He was wearing a gardening apron; patchwork and overly-large and with a big plastic daisy on the front pocket, and gloves; incredibly dirty - like he has been knuckle-deep in the soil. He only half-glares at Francis, blushing and bleeding - an awkward, absurd and almost-ashamed king of a beautiful, startling kingdom.

Francis suddenly felt like he had been staring at the sun for too long, like he had stepped into some kind of bizarre alternate reality, like someone had blown laughter like bubbles up though his chest and throat and he was about to go giddy or dizzy.

"Did you -" Francis pointed to Arthur's bleeding finger, partly to keep his attention diverted from that ridiculous plastic daisy on that even-more-ridiculous gardening apron, "Did you hurt yourself?"

"Cut it on my garden shears." Arthur muttered, looking to the side and pouting.

"O-oh." Francis pushed his lips together, trying to stop himself from smirking.

After a brief moment of silence, Arthur hurled his arms out to the side fiercely, shouting, "Come on then! Let's have it! Say what you will!"

Francis briefly contemplated the myriad of insults and hilarious jokes inside his head before he most intelligently said, "You're gardening."

"Y- yes." Arthur placed his hand on his hip and glared haughtily. "What of it?"

"You- you're _gardening_." Francis repeated, spluttering into laughs before he could finish.

"Don't you dare laugh!" Arthur shouted, curling his hands into fists at his sides, "I mean it, Francis!"

"I-" Francis all but collapsed into hysterics, holding up one hand as if telling Arthur to stop and turning away from him, a failure of an attempt to compose himself, "I- I can't help it. You're gardening."

"Why is that so hilarious?!" Arthur questioned.

"It's just all so ridiculous." Francis said through excited sniggers and pointing at Arthur, "_You_, out here, tending oh so lovingly to a secret special garden with a great big plastic daisy stuck on the front of your apron."

"Shut your face, Francis!" Arthur crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

"J- just look at you." Francis skipped forwards to take a better look at the upturned flower-bed. "Oh! - why, what are those you've been planting? More geraniums? You must plan to grow those with such utter _care _and sheer _devotion_. Oh, Arthur, what a wonderful, considerate wife you would have made."

"I don't care that I'm wearing a daisy-apron, Francis." Arthur stormed forwards and grabbed Francis by the collar, "I'll still kick your arse to fucking Paris and back."

"Oh, don't be mad, _mon cher_." Francis waved a hand and chuckled, "How would you want me to apologise? Shall I buy you a couple of seed packets? Would that do the trick? Or we could just skip straight to the make-up sex. I don't mind-"

"_Or_ you could just bloody off yourself!" Arthur snarled, tightening his grip.

"Yes. Maybe I could drown myself in your _darling_ little pond over there." Francis smirked.

"How _dare_ you. If you don't shut up right this instant, I'm going to shave off your beard." Arthur threatened.

"With what?" Francis asked, "Y- your _garden shears_?!" he finished, laughing riotously once again.

With a sudden violent jerk, Arthur gritted his teeth and shoved Francis at the shoulders, sending the crying-laughing Frenchman toppling backwards into the nearest flower-bed.

Still chuckling lightly, Francis stretched and knotted his hands together behind his neck, closing his eyes at the brightness of the sun and making himself comfortable.

"Oi!" Arthur shouted, kicking Francis' shin, "You're flattening my geraniums, you great berk!"

"_Quoi_?" Francis asked, wiping his eyes and calming down, "You pushed _me_, _idiot_."

"Well," Arthur put his hands on his hips and leant over Francis, "_That_ was because you were acting like a top-of-the-bloody-billboard arsehole and-"

Francis rolled his eyes, too cheerful and relaxed lying down in Arthur's geraniums to put up with any lectures from the man. While Arthur complained, Francis grabbed Arthur's wrist and pulled him, hard and fast, down into the flower-bed.

"What the hell do you think you're -" Arthur barked, sitting up.

"Shh," Francis raised a finger to his lips and surveyed the sky, "Nice view, _oui_?"

Arthur sighed and leant backwards, turning his attention towards the sun. "It's just a hobby, you know." He said finally.

"Anything you say." Francis nodded, closing his eyes.

"And a _good _one." Arthur mumbled, drawing his knees to his chin.

"Of course." Francis grinned.

"As long as we're clear." Arthur turned his head towards Francis.

Francis sat upright and kissed Arthur fondly on the cheek. It was a lazy kiss that tasted like sunbeams and grass stains and that made Arthur roll his eyes towards the horizon.

"Arthur?" Francis whispered against Arthur's temple.

"What?" Arthur grumbled, trying to push the other man away.

"You have a geranium petal on your eyebrow." Francis smiled, stretching and standing up.

Arthur sighed and flicked the pink petal away into the breeze.

"So, now that you're a gardener and all-" Francis began.

"It's a _hobby_." Arthur corrected with a growl.

"Now that you're a _gardener _and all, do you know all of the meanings of the plants?" Francis asked.

"I know some." Arthur admitted, cupping his chin in his gloves.

"So, what is the meaning of the geranium?" Francis slung his hands inside his jacket pockets and turned, letting sunshine and the overwhelming scent of honeysuckle dribble and drip over his shoulders.

Arthur blinked and then looked right into Francis' eyes as if he were about to say something beautiful or profound, as if he were about to say some subtle meaning that had passion hidden in its simplicity.

"Stupidity." Arthur said and Francis truly had to wonder if ever a word has been emphasised so much as that one.

Arthur sat there a little while longer in the tangle of his garden.

* * *

**part ii . the roses**

"So," Francis says finally, "Where are the roses? Can I pick some to take home?"

"The first rule of this garden is that you _don't _pick flowers. At all." Arthur stands up and shakes his head.

"I shall try to abide by that rule. May I at least _look _at the roses?" Francis' voice is spiked with hope, almost.

"I don't grow roses." Arthur replies, dusting the soil from his clothes.

"Why ever not? They are the -" Francis is incredulous.

Arthur smiles and then snaps his sheers between his fingers.

"They are my national flower so I don't grow them because they remind me of blood and of death and of war." He pauses and then adds in a voice so fierce and quiet it could, perhaps, get lost in the wind, "I don't grow them because they remind me of love and of hatred and of you."

* * *

**part iii . the gladioli**

Surrounding the grotto are gladioli, their petals and leaves like arrowheads spitting upwards towards the clouds. The stems intertwine and uncoil in the breeze and it almost looks as if they are fighting, living up to their very name. The petals are white, white as untouched piano keys but stained at the edges and in the heart of themselves with a red-pink spill, almost like blood splayed brutally over steel.

"The sword lily." Francis muses, admiring the tall, beautiful flowers.

"The gladiolus." Arthur corrects.

"Remember when we would fight with swords?" Francis asks, grinning wickedly.

"I remember winning every duel." Arthur smirks, his voice smooth and arrogant.

Before Arthur can even protest, Francis plucks two gladioli out from the flower-bed and holds one out, offering it to Arthur, "You shall not win this one, though."

"You are not seriously proposing that we duel with my gladioli?" Arthur asks.

"They're picked now," Francis hands Arthur the long stem, "It would be a waste not to indulge in it, would it not?"

"I told you _not _to pick my-" Arthur begins but Francis is already bringing the flower to his lip.

"_En garde_!" Francis calls, sweeping the gladiolus to his side, its dagger-like petals swooping sharply.

"Wait!" Arthur shouts, attempting to pull off a glove with his teeth, "I'm not-"

"_Allez_!" Francis calls and darts forward, his back is perfectly straight and he curls his wrist.

Arthur hops backwards and catches himself on the backs of his heels. He parries the attack clumsily and follows through with an elegant riposte. His dips as if he is dancing, his spine slightly curved like a dorsal fin. Francis smirks as he dodges the riposte and then he retreats, stepping backwards on the tips of his toes and creating a distance between the two. Arthur advances quickly, thrusting the gladiolus forwards, to which Francis immediately parries. They clash like this a short while, stems of the flowers bending but not breaking. Arthur then turns, ever so slightly, shielding himself and raising his gladiolus-arm in order to execute an overhead attack. Instead of parrying, however, Francis counter-attacks, side-stepping to the left and slashing the flower diagonally from his left side.

The flower collides with Arthur's chest. The petals crumple instantly and begin to flutter downwards from where his heart should be.

"That would have killed me, then." Arthur says darkly although his eyes don't seem to care about that. Instead, they begin to glimmer in the hope of a rematch.

"Then it is a good thing they are merely flowers, is it not?" Francis lets go of the stem and it quickly joins the petals upon the earth.

Before Arthur can reply, however, Francis asks, "So, what is the meaning of the gladioli? Violence? Anger?"

"Actually," Arthur looks down, still brandishing the weapon, "They mean strength of character. Natural grace, too."

"Ah," Francis considers this a moment, "Best out of three, _non_?" Francis smiles and pulls another sword out from its root.

* * *

**part iv . the tulips**

The tulip is one of Arthur's favouites, for if one were to lie in the grass after it has been raining and holds a tulip up to the sun, it looks just like a bell suspended in the sky. The sadness is that it is a silent, unsung bell. The beauty is that the tulip means romance and passion and love. It is a rose, but it is not a rose.

* * *

**part v . the crocuses**

There are few crocuses in the garden but of what there are of them; they are both vibrant and lovely. Crocuses seem so fragile, barely growing taller than the grass and sometimes blooming while their petals are still snapped shut. The crocuses in Arthur's garden, Francis realises, are either a haunting blue-violet or the colour of tangerines and sunsets.

"Crocuses?" He asks and his voice is still and curious.

"Youthful joy," Arthur replies as if the answer had been sitting at the tip of his tongue all along.

"Which is fitting, I suppose." Francis mutters and then smiles as if he is remembering something.

"How so?" Arthur asks as he digs his trowel into the soil.

"Well- we- _I_ would pick flowers not unlike these ones when we were young." Francis feels distant somehow thought he does not know if it is because he is disappointed that Arthur doesn't remember or if it is because it hurts his pride, almost, to talk of the past and of times when things were neither simpler nor more complex.

_Arthur was of a timeless, impossible age. His youth was earth-shattering and his bravery was fickle and violent. His ankles were thin and his knees were permanently grazed. He would climb to the tops of trees, sometimes just because he could and sometimes because he had been running away from something or someone and up was the only way to go. After all, his bravery was fickle. _

_Francis would visit him and either be met with pleas or with violence. Though Arthur's bravery faltered, however, his will remained unbreakable. As he cried spiteful tears, it was still obvious he had the potential to reach up and touch the edge of greatness. _

_So Francis would pat Arthur upon the head and ask him how he would be as a nation, and Arthur would reply with childish determination, "I will make my own history."_

_Then Francis would nod and agree and in that instant he was his best friend. In that moment, he was his brother. So he picked flowers while he waited for the moment to pass. He picked orange flowers that opened and closed like howling mouths and with petals smoother than his own skin. _

_Arthur told him, bravely, not to pick the flowers because dragons roamed the land and the flowers were their food and their trinkets and there was an anger in their souls that kept growing. Francis merely made a chiding nose in his throat and laughed a little too cruelly and said, "No, Angleterre, Dragons do not eat tiny flowers. They eat unicorn hearts and fairy wings and small nations who do not accept kindness in the form of flowers."_

_And Arthur's young, fierce heart crumpled at this. He eagerly clawed for his gift and cried a requiem into the saluting-the-autumn-rain petals. _

"And so, I have to wonder if anything changes, for you still spit at me and pull my hair and you still give the illusion that you are so unbreakable." Francis says, half-to-himself.

"One thing has changed," Arthur breathes, "I don't think I _ever _really made my own history. It was more like it was my history that made _me_."

"Dragons still don't exist, though. I never did see one." Francis laughs and hands Arthur a crocus. It opens and closes like a laughing mouth.

"Like your stupidity," Arthur snatches the flower out from Francis' offering hands, "You do not actually have to constantly see something to know that it is there."

* * *

**part vi . the daffodils**

"What is it that you're planting now?" Francis asks. He is sitting in the afternoon light and he is watching Arthur dig tiny holes in the dirt and then fill them with bulbs. He had, of course, promised Arthur that he would be extremely quiet if he were to stay but that was proving to be too difficult.

"Daffodils." Arthur sighs and begins to pat the upturned soil carefully with the back of his trowel.

"Ah," Francis tilts his head back and breathes in the fresh air, "Like in the poem, _oui_?"

"And then my heart with pleasure fills," Arthur recites immediately and without any trouble, "And dances with the daffodils. Wordsworth."

"You Englishmen and your poetry." Francis shakes his head lightheartedly and Arthur smiles a little too proudly.

"So," Francis says, "Why are you growing this garden anyway?"

Arthur stops what he is doing suddenly and then begins to tunnel into the soil with his outstretched fingers, coming out with a fist full of earth. He raises his hand and the mound of soil smells of childhood and of funerals and of making-something-out-of-only-what-the-earth-gives-you and then, slowly, he separates his fingers and watches the dirt rain downwards like tiny meteorites cartwheeling towards earth.

"Like a poem that echoes Wordsworth," Arthur explains, "I just wanted to make something beautiful."

* * *

**part vii . the roses part deux**

It is unusual for Arthur to wake up so early. True, sometimes he _was_ a regular early bird; fully dressed and with his breakfast eaten before nine, but it was rare he ever arose while it was still dark out. His alarm clock must have malfunctioned or something. After inspecting his clock, which flashed four thirty am in bright red numbers and seemed relatively unbroken, Arthur kicked back the covers and got out of bed. The room was dark and grey like shadows upon snow and Arthur chalked the situation up to a fluke. That was until he heard some kind of noise from outside. Starting, Arthur made his way over to the window and hesitated with the hem of the curtain. What if it were something dangerous? Like a burglar or drunken hooligan? Arthur scoffed. It may be early but it was never too early to go into full empire-mode on any intruders.

The noise grew louder. It sounded like metal being grated through soil - like digging. 'Oh how simply fantastic', Arthur mused, 'there is a _murderer_ burying a body in my garden.' His second thought, of course, was 'A body? How utterly troublesome.' His third, and perhaps, most perturbing, was 'In _my_ garden? My _lovely_ garden?'

After clawing the curtains open, Arthur lapsed into stunned silence. Then, he rolled his eyes and exhaled slowly.

"Honestly." He muttered, pulling his heavy boots over the thin, grass-green satin of his pajama bottoms and beginning to make his way downstairs.

Francis smiled and stood back to admire his work, all the while wiping the dirt from his cheeks on his old shirt sleeve. At the back of Arthur's secret garden, in a free patch of soil, he has planted two brilliant rose bushes - one bursting at every thorny branch with huge red roses and the other littered with pink ones, buds ready to explode open like popcorn.

"Who are you, then?" Arthur is stood behind him, his arms folded across his chest and clumsily-buttoned shirt flapping in the wind, "The midnight bloody gardener?"

"_Oui _- that is my secret alias. Didn't you know?" Francis answered.

"Very funny, Francis," Arthur shook his head and marched forwards, inspecting the new additions to his garden, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Every garden should have roses, _mon cher_. I felt _I_ should accomplish what your stubbornness makes you neglect." Francis said, untying the ribbon of his apron at his neck.

Arthur cleared his throat slightly and then bent down, running a finger over the thick layers of petals. It was just like Francis to plant roses. A rose is supposed to be just that - a rose, but with Francis, sometimes a rose was _not _a rose. Sometimes it was something else entirely. Something else in bloom.

"So pink for appreciation," Arthur observed and then turned to the second plant, swallowing, his mouth suddenly hot and dry "And red for what? For love?"

"Naturally," Francis smiled, "But not just for love. They mean so much more than that, Arthur. They mean courage. They mean _respect_."

"Right," Arthur said shortly, "Right."

"So that's okay, isn't it?" Francis yawned, stretching his arms above his head and making a satisfied noise in his throat not unlike the purr of a cat, "It's okay I've planted these, isn't it, Arthur?"

"It's okay." Arthur grumbled quietly and then moved away towards his gardening tools.

"Good," Francis followed him, curious as to what his companion was up to, "I wouldn't want to make you_ too _upset by doing this. Especially since I teased you so this morning and - Arthur? What are you doing?"

"I said it's okay," Arthur whirled round to face his friend, grinning slightly and snapping his garden shears a little too close to the tip of Francis' nose, "Since I shall simply turn them into _mulch_."


End file.
